Ashes
by Zamiel
Summary: He tucked the cig into the corner of his mouth, inhaling steadily as if he were in love.  Oneshot.  Rooftop conversational piece between Mello and Matt


Ashes by Zamiel

Childhood Matt and Mello drabble.

I.

Nobody knew where the cigarettes came from; all of a sudden, there they were, as if they'd sprouted between Matt's fingers overnight. The redhead didn't smoke them in a typical, amateurish way, but as if he'd been smoking for all his life. He was only 12.

Naturally, when Roger had discovered this (it hadn't been that hard, since Matt often came to meals with the unpleasant stench of smoke wrapped around him like a thick, heavy gauze as if he were asking to be caught), the usually even-tempered caretaker had exploded into a series of uncharacteristic shrieks.

"Turn them out!" he had screeched, gesturing towards Matt's pockets, where there was, in addition to a slightly dented box of Marlboros, his Game Boy, some loose cash, a clipping from Playboy magazine, his switchblade, lighter, and a bag of firecrackers. Looking down at the pseudo-delinquent contents scattered in front of him, Roger had rubbed his eyes wearily and mumbled something about 'being too old for this,' causing a thin, wan smile to scuttle briefly across Matt's lips.

A careful examination through Matt's room proved to be a fruitful search—the boy had hidden cartons of cigs under his pillow and bed, between the crevices of his bookcase, inside his shoes…Roger had confiscated the whole mass before giving the redhead a lecture he barely drank a word of.

"You would've thought I'd shot someone," grumbled Matt to himself, making sure the coast was clear before hoisting himself out of the window. He had discovered some time ago that his room in particular had easy access to the roof since the roof sloped downwards to meet his window. A nearby tree offered easy footing; the only real danger was the possibility of being spotted from someone in the garden, which would be unfortunate, to say the least. He liked having the roof to himself—it offered a haven in which he could bum around by himself and he especially liked being there at night after the occupants of Wammy's House surrendered to sleep, leaving him to smoke one cig after another, dispelling smoke into the night sky. If anyone could see him during those times, they'd think the boy was meditating, tucked away in some unreachable pocket of nirvana.

He carefully made way to the chimney; once he reached the largest one protruding from the left side of Wammy's, he was home-free. The chimney shielded him from view and he was free to do whatever he wanted underneath the protection of solitude. Smirking, he reached inside his sleeves for a small magnifying glass and a cigarette. He liked this chimney—it had attitude, resembling a long, blasphemous finger pointing skywards to flick off the entire world. Before leaving Wammy's, he'd have to tattoo his name up here for kicks.

The shouts of the other children from the garden seemed distant, as if their voices were coming from underwater. He focused the lens of on the glass on the end of the cig, using a stray sunbeam to steam the thing until it burned and he tucked it into the corner of his mouth, inhaling steadily as if he were in love.

_Bliss_.

II.

Mello hadn't said one word since two hours ago, when Near's bishop and knight performed a terrific onslaught, landing Mello's king in a neat, unbreakable checkmate.

Mello's expression had been extraordinarily cryptic after the unexpected ambush; he had, after all, captured Near's queen and two rooks within the first twenty moves and had been sure of a secure victory. They had had a crowd of onlookers, who all seemed to understand that this was no casual match—this was a seething, unspoken war between Near and Mello. Roger came to observe as well. Mello felt like punching the wall when he had observed the faint gleam in Roger's eye when Near had announced checkmate in his toneless voice. Everyone had sucked in their breaths simultaneously at the incredible win; with great difficulty, Mello had stood up, shook Near's hand, the cheery "Good game" phrase uttered strangely from his mouth, completely unconvincing.

No doubt some of the Wammy kids were busy compiling new blonde jokes; although no one had the balls to say them in Mello's presence, they all wormed to him sooner or later. He clenched his fist, hating the cheerful voices that sporadically passed by his room. Clipped phrases of "Near was amazing" and "I was sure Mello was going to win" brought him to the precipice of anger. _Give it up, idiots, the match was two fucking hours ago_. He made sure the hallway was empty, listening intently for shuffling footsteps and voices before heading towards Matt's room.

"Hey, Matt?"

The room was empty; Mello observed the wide-open window and the faint traces of a footprint on the ledge. Smirking to himself, he placed on foot on top of the track-marks of Matt's sneaker, knowing full well where his friend must be.

III.

Matt was half-way through his second cigarette when a series of footsteps startled him out of his reverie. Guiltily, he snatched the cig out of his lips, craning his neck around the corner of the chimney to steal a good look at the intruder.

Oh, it was _him_.

Sighing and steadying his scattered pulse, he took a deep drag from the Marlboro, releasing smoke steadily as he spoke from the side of his mouth. "Hey, Mello." Busted, dammit.

"Nice place you got here," observed Mello, looking down at the garden.

"Get down," hissed Matt. "They can see you from there, you know." He gestured to the space beside him and Mello reluctantly plopped down, back against the chimney.

"This your hiding place?" retorted Mello in a nasty voice; before Matt could ask him what crawled up his underwear, the blonde blurted, "I lost a chess game to Near."

"Mmm." The dumbest things upset Mello, it seemed. Mello scowled, goaded by his friend's lack of interest.

"Everybody was watching."

"You have my sympathy," grinned Matt diabolically, not sounding sincere in the least. "Near, huh? Cute kid, in a Charles Wallace sort of way."

"Roger saw, too."

"Yeah?" drawled the redhead, faintly wishing Mello could find something else to chew on. This was getting _boring_, dammit. Mello stomped to his feet.

"Why don't you try caring once in a while!" It was so easy to rile him up. Matt rolled his eyes, grinding the cigarette butt into the roof tiles, immediately snatching another one from his inner sleeve and lighting it with the magnifying glass.

"OK. Poor Mello. Is that better? Why do you even care anyway?" He exhaled another lungful of smoke, watching it dissipate, phantom-like. Mello coughed as Matt tapped some dregs off the end of his cigarette. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. "The more you try to topple Near, the more Roger takes from you anyway."

"The hell do you mean?" Mello was still being sulkish; Matt glanced quickly at the surly blonde before elaborating.

"Wammy's Dump. They're trying to make us into clones or something. Freaky. The next L. L's successors. Bullshit. Why spend your lifetime and brainpower trying to be someone else?"

"And I suppose being Matt is a hell of a lot better than being L?" sneered Mello, coughing and choking on the smoke. Matt shrugged in response because he really didn't know what to say. Mello glowered at him. "I thought Roger confiscated all your cigarettes. Those things smell like shit. They'll make your teeth rot and give you lung cancer, you know."

Matt shrugged again, squinting up at the blonde who was standing right in front of the sunlight. "We all die anyway."

"No shit. It's just that lung cancer's a crappy way to go, idiot."

"Better than diabetes." Matt smiled at his own retort, tapping more ash off the end of the cig; he watched it float away, the coals still faintly burning as they hit the ground. "That'll be bollocks—the day I'm strapped to a hospital bed, dying of lung cancer and I look over to see you dying of diabetes in the other bed." He gave a hoarse, barking laugh—just being near Mello at death's door, he figured, would be enough to make him conk out altogether. "And then," he mused, cigarette clenched in his teeth as he muttered more to himself, "I'll lean over and say, 'Hey, Mello. Bet you'll snuff it faster than me. You wanna play a round of chess while we wait?'"

"Fuck you," snapped Mello, hacking another cough. "It's your stupid secondhand smoke that'll kill me. Anyways," he glared, scuffing the roof tiles with his toe, "I'm not dying with _you_, dickwad."

Funny how the slightly-older boy acted so much younger than himself. Matt tilted his head back and blew in Mello's direction, inducing another series of coughs from the blonde. "Yeah," he smirked casually, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I hope to hell not."


End file.
